


After Party

by Brokenpitchpipe



Series: (Close as) Grapes Upon the Vine [2]
Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28961469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brokenpitchpipe/pseuds/Brokenpitchpipe
Summary: “Unbelievable.No warning, no letter— he never follows customs, thinks the rules are beneath him when they don’t serve to his betterment—” His father glared. “I can see why you get along.”“It’s not like I invited him here,” Zagreus lied.
Relationships: Dionysus/Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Series: (Close as) Grapes Upon the Vine [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2124216
Comments: 24
Kudos: 143





	After Party

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't already, go ahead and read the first part [here,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28920060) this is just uhhhhh,,,, more of that

“Unbelievable.” 

Zagreus had heard his father’s voice lowered in such a tone countless times, but never before had it been directed towards anyone other than himself.

 _“Unbelievable._ No warning, no letter— he never follows customs, thinks the rules are beneath him when they don’t serve to his betterment—” He glared at Zagreus. “I can see why you get along.” 

“It’s not like I invited him here,” Zagreus lied. Technically, no, he hadn’t sent a formal invitation to Olympus. But it was definitely still his fault.

Ignoring him, Zagreus’s father barged past Cerberus's empty bed to the west wing. _“Achilles!”_ he bellowed, nearly making the poor shade drop his spear. Achilles straightened it and stood at attention, betraying no sign of fright.

“Yes, Lord Hades?”

“If a single artifact in this hall goes missing, you will never set foot in Elysium again, you understand?”

Achilles bowed. “Of course.” 

Zagreus’s father stomped away, muttering under his breath about customs, ingrates, and low-life layabouts. Achilles raised an eyebrow at Zagreus. 

“Good luck,” he murmured. Zagreus nodded his thanks, too shamefaced to meet Achilles’s eyes. Of the events regarding Persephone’s welcoming feast, he had told no soul besides his sparring instructor, with whom he knew his secrets could rest in confidence. And so Achilles knew exactly what had transpired, and could now guess at what was about to happen.

The rest of the House could not, and remained in chaos as it had done from the moment Hypnos had timidly approached the front desk to inform Zagreus’s father that a large man with a pelt draped over his shoulders was standing on their doorstep awaiting permission to enter. Orpheus was aghast after Zagreus’s father had ordered him and his music stand to take refuge in the lounge, and Hypnos was now hurriedly ordering fresh shades from the river off to the side.

“I said _out_ of the hall,” Zagreus’s father thundered, gesturing to the growing collection of shades huddled by the fireplace. “What part of that don’t you understand?” He tugged his cape in frustration. “By the end of the night we’ll have bare walls and mountains of paperwork for our troubles, mark my words—” 

“Dear,” Persephone said delicately, “do relax. Now that your wonderful gorgon servant has returned, I think we have nothing to worry about. After all, she keeps such a lovely itemized list of everything in the house.”

Zagreus’s father took a deep breath. “I will speak to her,” he agreed with forced calm, and swept into the lounge to find Dusa. 

“Mother,” Zagreus cut in, “I’m so sorry, this is all my fault.” 

“Nonsense,” Persephone said primly, before he could explain exactly what he meant by the apology— he was still unsure whether she knew what had transpired during her feast. She acted as though she had not, or at least didn’t care in the slightest. “Should our relatives decide to visit us it is of their own volition,” she said firmly. And then, with a smile in her eyes— “But do fix your laurels, my dear.”

Zagreus patted his hair back awkwardly.

Everyone threw themselves into last minute touch-ups: Zagreus caught Dusa frantically dusting the portraits in the east hall, Achilles beside her ensuring that each of the sacred artifacts was fastened securely to its golden base. Orpheus sullenly tuned his lyre in the back corner of the lounge while the head chef pulled a poached sturgeon from the oven and began to garnish it. Hypnos had moved his recliner to the front doors and was already asleep again, while Persephone finished rounding up all the new shades from the Styx and ushered them into the garden. 

“Here, boy,” Zagreus’s father grunted, pushing an armload of papers into his hands. “Put these in my chambers. I’d rather they stay under lock and key.” 

Trying to remember the last time he’d followed his father’s orders without question or contempt, Zagreus hurried to the back of west wing and dumped the stack of parchment on his father’s bed. It collapsed the moment he set it down, pages tumbling to the floor. He considered cleaning them for a split second before deciding against it and hurrying back out. 

He’d only been gone a moment, but when he entered the House once more the place was empty, spotless. Dusa had abandoned the west hall, Achilles was back at his post, and Zagreus’s father paced by the front door, counting some last checklist on his fingers.

 _“Zagreus,”_ his mother hissed, gesturing for him to join her beside the front desk. He did, only slightly out of breath, and she took one look at him and began to fix his hair. “Honestly, did Nyx give you that mirror for nothing?” she muttered, tucking a lock out of his eyes.

“Mother, I look _fine—”_

“Hold still.” Persephone centered his laurels, pulling a few locks of hair to rest casually over the leaves, and then stood back to admire her handiwork. “There you go, much better. Don’t touch it, now,” she warned.

Zagreus waited until she looked away— specifically at the sight of his father ushering a few lost shades to the back of the east wing— and tugged his laurels back where he liked them. 

“Right, so,” Dusa said, trailing behind Zagreus’s father without looking up. “Paintings are dusted, rugs were checked, doors are locked, the chef is done, I sent notices out to Megaera and Thanatos, Nyx is still off with Chaos but she should be able to see us so she won’t come barging in— we should be good to go!” She rattled off each point with her usual fervor, but this time it was a proud proclamation rather than an exhausted ramble. Her time away, though miserable and guilt-fulled for Zagreus, had served her well. 

“Good,” Zagreus’s father said. “And you—” 

“I’ll be up in the rafters, keeping quiet. It’ll be like I don’t even exist,” Dusa finished merrily.

Zagreus’s father grunted his approval and Dusa soared upwards out of sight. 

For a moment there was silence. Zagreus’s father kicked the plush recliner by the door. Hypnos snapped awake with a start, looking around in confusion for a moment before remembering where he was.

“Right, yes, yes,” he stammered, and cleared his throat. _“Announcing the arrival of the son of great Lord Zeus, nephew to the great master Lord Hades, adored by mortals and gods alike, Lord Dionysus of Olympus.”_

At his words the enormous front doors swung open. 

If it had been any other god on their doorstep— Athena, Zeus, or perhaps Ares— not only would they have given ample warning of their arrival, but upon it they would stalk haughtily over the Styx, accompanied by a fanfare of servants or lesser gods assisting them. 

But this was not any other god.

Dionysus stepped into the House of Hades as casually as though it were a through-point on his way to somewhere much more interesting. This was impossible, of course: there was nothing _past_ the House of Hades, not if you traveled from the surface down. The House was as low as one could reach— a point of pride that Zagreus’s father was fond of making known. 

“How _are_ you all?” Dionysus was alone, and looked perfectly comfortable that way. His sash trailed a short distance behind him, light like clouds, hovering just above the dingy stone floor so as not to stain itself. “Don’t tell me you cleaned this place for me, man,” he gushed, looking around the House in wonder. “Oh, it’s just how I remember it— all dark and gloomy, how wonderful.” 

Persephone cleared her throat. 

“Ah— right,” Dionysus said, at least having the grace to sound a little sheepish. He centered himself opposite where Zagreus’s father and mother stood, and gave a polite nod. “My thanks to the king and queen of the underworld for so graciously hosting my presence.”

“You’re very welcome here,” Persephone told him, nodding in return. Zagreus’s father hesitated, then mimicked her. Zagreus was only a little surprised; his father was sullen, yes, but even he wouldn’t want to insult an Olympian without proper cause. Still, it was entertaining to watch him do something he so clearly didn’t want to do.

“Well, isn’t that generous of you,” Dionysus gushed. He reached for her hand and kissed it. Persephone smiled politely, clearly not bothered in the slightest, but Zagreus’s father twitched his fingers as though he wished he had his spear in hand. 

“Would you like food or drink?” Zagreus asked quickly.

Dionysus noticed him for the first time, and when his eyes landed over Zagreus they caught a twinkle of torchlight. His smile shifted— still jovial, but with something else behind it now, too. “How kind of you to offer, Zag, but I think I’m all right.”

Behind him, a sudden flurry of movement caught Zagreus’s eye.

The Styx rippled, signaling a new arrival to the House, and a handful of shades emerged from the river. Evidently the lot of them had all died at once, probably without warning if the way they stared aghast at the House was any indication. 

Had the House received more than a minute’s notice of Dionysus’s visit, they could have blocked the Styx off at the surface and forced the shades to wait up there until the House was empty again, as they had done for Persephone’s feast. It was unthinkable for a common, nameless shade to bask in the presence of Olympians without having done some grand favor to earn it. And though the handful of shades by the Styx clearly had no idea where they were or how they’d gotten there, it only took one look at the purple-robed god in the middle of the hall to send them into a state of awe.

“Dear,” Persephone said quickly, her smile tightening. “I hate to remind you now of all times, but you did promise to check the surface today.”

“Yes,” Zagreus added, giving a pointed look. His father hadn’t taken his eyes off Dionysus. “You were going to check on the satyr infestation, remember?” 

Zagreus’s father scowled at him. “I will not be swayed by an _obvious_ attempt to remove me from the conversation,” he growled. “Tradition requires I host our guest, no matter how unexpected—” 

Zagreus could pinpoint the exact moment his father saw the shades. His face tensed in the exact same way it did whenever Zagreus reached the surface yet again and bested him, that expression that meant he’d been taken by surprise, a feat typically reserved for gods of the highest standing. 

“But— as it happens,” his father added stiffly, looking back at Dionysus again before he could follow his gaze, “I— did. Promise.”

The shades began to creep forward.

Dionysus raised an eyebrow. “Can’t have you breaking your vows, now, can we? Where would we be if the king of the underworld broke his promises?” He laughed. It rang uncomfortably off the walls, a foreign sound in the House of Hades. 

“I thank you for your understanding,” Zagreus’s father grumbled, clearly perturbed he had to _thank_ Dionysus, of all people. He gave one more customary nod, then swept his cape dramatically— always a sign he was putting on airs. As he marched to the Styx, he pushed the startled shades back down the river beneath his cape in one fell swoop. 

The doors slammed shut behind him, and Zagreus realized that must be what he did every time he saw Zagreus fight through Elysium and headed to the surface. He’d never put much thought into it, just learned to expect his father’s presence in the snow, staring out at the water, perhaps watching a rare river denizen.

Persephone cleared her throat. “You’ll have to forgive my impudence as well, Lord Dionysus. I too have pressing matters which require my attention.” She both looked and sounded sincerely apologetic, but Zagreus didn’t have the slightest clue what she was talking about. He searched her eyes for a hidden message, but all she gave him was a quick glance, a silent warning not to interrupt. 

“Not to worry, not to worry,” Dionysus assured her, waving away her apology with an easy hand. “Didn’t give you much time to prepare, did I? I did hope I’d catch you at a good time, but it looks like I’ve lost Tyche’s favor today, yeah?”

Luck had nothing to do with it, Zagreus thought dully. He had to know that there was no such thing as a “good time” to drop by the House of Hades unannounced.

“Zagreus can show you around the House, I hope,” his mother said then.

“Oh, yes,” Dionysus agreed— his voice dropped in volume. “I’m sure he’ll be an _excellent_ host.” 

Zagreus felt himself sinking into the ground in shame, once again wishing his feet were stuck in magma rather than stone. Persephone was looking at him, unspoken meaning behind her gaze, as though she expected Zagreus to do something very specific once she had left. Dionysus, meanwhile, had forgone subtlety to stare at Zagreus openly, having even the gall to tug his bottom lip between his teeth.

There was no way his mother _couldn’t_ know.

“Take care, Zagreus,” she told him. “And remember your manners.” With a final bow to Dionysus she swept into the garden, locking the doors behind her.

And then they were alone— except for Hypnos and Achilles, one of whom gave a reassuring look from the west hall while the other stared in bafflement. Dionysus leaned on the massive front desk, watching Zagreus hover awkwardly over the sigil on the floor. 

“Er,” Zagreus said after a few moments. “Did you actually want a tour of the House, or…?”

“Don’t go out of your way on my account, man,” Dionysus said, shaking his head. “I’m only here to take what’s mine.”

Zagreus stared at him.

“My chalice,” Dionysus clarified. “I did tell you not to lose it, Zag.” 

“Right!” Breath in his lungs once more, Zagreus nodded dumbly. “Right, of course. I secured it with the rest of my keepsakes. I’ll… show you the way.” 

So Dionysus followed him down the east hall and through the stone passageway that led to his chambers. And while it didn’t occur to him until he was halfway through the passageway that it was a bit odd to be showing his personal chambers to an Olympian god, it didn’t occur to him until he had entered the damn place that he still had that _blasted poster on his wall._

He dashed to the wall with _one-two_ quick steps, grabbed the cursed poster bearing Dionysus’s figure, and ripped it down, desperately hoping he hadn’t seen, praying— 

“Zag, I didn’t know you played.” 

Dionysus was bent over the enormous lyre that sat by the front, completely oblivious. Zagreus stuffed the poster inside a stray urn, took a second to catch his breath, and answered.

“Not very well,” he said, shrugging casually. “Orpheus offered to teach me, but I only ever pluck it before I head outside. I don’t know any songs, unless you like random picking.”

“What a shame. I’d have loved to hear you sing,” Dionysus mused. He plucked the top string, drawing more song from it than Zagreus could with all five. Interest depleted, he stood back up and surveyed the room, his gaze finally landing on Zagreus’s scarlet sheets.

“Man, you really live it up down here.” 

“Hardly,” Zagreus admitted. “I haven’t slept in…” he trailed off, unable to remember. It hadn’t been _aeons._ He could remember the last time he had lain on his bed and fallen unconscious, but the act had remained so inconsequential for so long that he couldn’t recall the exact length of time since.

“Really?” Dionysus said, sounding truly surprised. He sat at the foot of Zagreus’s bed and patted the blankets, testing their weight. “Pity,” he said, “this is almost as comfortable as my chambers up on Olympus. Only without the clouds and the fresh air,” he added, laughing. 

And with that, he lowered himself onto the blankets, closed his eyes, and crossed his legs. He didn’t move for a solid minute, forcing Zagreus to hover beside the bed, waiting for something to happen or someone to speak. He couldn’t very well just _leave._

Eventually Dionysus cracked an eye open, catching Zagreus’s.

“Come join me.” 

Zagreus didn’t have much of a choice. It wasn’t _really_ an order, he could tell, but it was still a command from the mouth of an Olympian, and that held considerable weight.

Sure, if he really wanted to, he could jog right out into the garden and beg his mother’s help, and at her command Dionysus would be out the door in seconds, debt or no. But instinct— or perhaps desire— propelled him forward instead of back. He flopped onto his bed, head hitting his pillows for the first time in ages. On instinct he let his eyes close, arched his back, and stretched an arm over his head, reaching up for the headboard. Something at the base of his spine _popped_ very satisfyingly, and he let out a little sigh, eyes fluttering open. 

Dionysus was watching him.

In contrast to the night of the feast, now Zagreus was the target of attention, the recipient of silent, honest hunger. And it felt _good._

He stretched the other arm, arching his back again.

“I don’t think I knew how tired I was until just now,” he remarked, trying to recreate that wonderful pop in his spine once more. It didn’t come, but the stretch still felt pleasant. “It’s been an age since I’ve even sat down.” 

“You should try it more often.” Dionysus smiled. “It’s very rewarding.” 

And without warning, he reached over and plucked Zagreus’s laurels right off his head, setting them atop his own instead. They clashed awfully against the green and purple grape vines, but Zagreus thought they might look nice against his hair alone. 

“I suppose it is,” he agreed, lying flat on his back again. 

And with that they fell into a comfortable silence. This, again, was new: there was no expectation of right or wrong words to deliver, and no worry over how long they’d spend here— Dionysus’s chalice would stay safe within the box of keepsakes no matter how long they lay over the blankets. Until Dionysus decided he’d had enough, they could stay here for days or nights, listening to the scrying pool bubble and the mirror hum with power, and Zagreus wouldn’t mind.

Dionysus had sprawled over the covers without a trace of purposeful grace, yet still managed to look like a magnificent oil painting. The animal pelt draped itself perfectly over his shoulders, and his sash flowed between his legs but still left bare the golden ring on his thigh. There was only one part of his attire that didn’t look suitable for a bed. 

“Those can’t be comfortable,” Zagreus said, pointing at his sandals. 

Without hesitation, Dionysus loosened the straps and cast them off.

“Neither can that,” he countered, grinning, and reached over to tap the skulls on Zagreus’s shoulder. 

And so Zagreus had unwittingly bound himself to fulfill the other half of the unintended exchange. He, unlike every other creature of darkness and death down here, had red blood in his veins. So he, alone, could blush. And so he did, feeling the heat in his cheeks as he disrobed silently, keeping his eyes on his hands. He pulled his tunic from his shoulders, leaving him in nothing but his pteruges. The tunic landed on the floor, skulls rattling off of his useless weights.

When he looked up, Dionysus was staring at him again. Not at his flushed, shameful face, but at his bare chest. For a moment he didn’t move.

And then he reached below his sash, not moving his gaze. 

It was so untoward and unexpected— not just of an Olympian, but of _anyone—_ that for a moment Zagreus froze, unsure what to do. How should he act? Should he stretch again and show off his muscles? Lie down to display himself? Perhaps reach out and offer his own touch, or copy Dionysus and take himself in hand, too? Which was the right choice, which was Dionysus looking for— 

And at once, Dionysus’s words entered his mind, as clearly as if Zagreus were sitting on the lounge chair again, hot breath on his ear: _don’t live your life focused on what others will think of you— what you do, say, or even how you exist._

There was no right or wrong choice. Dionysus wasn’t looking for a particular act to please him most. No, the only way Zagreus could move forward was to ask what it was he himself really wanted. 

And he found the answer at once. 

His hand sought Dionysus’s strong arm, which had begun to move steadily as he stroked himself beneath his sash. Dionysus’s lips parted in surprise as Zagreus’s fingertips made contact; evidently he hadn’t expected Zagreus to be quite so bold. 

He had a choice, now, to run his fingers down or up. Down would provide an excellent reward, but up was unexplored territory. 

And so he trailed his touch upwards, thumb and forefinger finding where the lavender sash draped over Dionysus’s shoulder. He pulled, dragging the silk down to bare his chest. Dionysus unclasped the pelt from his neck, letting it fall to the sheets beneath them, and then they were equal.

Dionysus’s skin glowed, enticingly close, its warmth reaching Zagreus’s palm even before he brought it down to touch. And when he did it pulsed against his skin, solid and steady and soft. 

Instinct guided him, and he pressed his mouth to Dionysus’s chest— salt and wine met his tongue, and Dionysus’s unoccupied hand landed on his chest, thumb ducking beneath his collarbone. Zagreus closed his teeth over flesh and Dionysus sounded for the first time, noise curling up his throat and expelling in a hot, heavy breath. 

Unlike the bustle of Persephone’s feast, Zagreus’s room was near-silent. Every breath Dionysus took, no matter the volume, rang clear in Zagreus’s ears, carrying a subtle message, each distinct from the last. When Zagreus’s tongue fell against the outline of his muscle, the breath turned to a low, throaty moan, and his hand answered with quickened pace beneath the sash. 

This, too, Zagreus could hear. It was wet, slick, and suddenly loud in his ear, leaving nothing to his imagination. 

To his surprise, the sound sent heat to his core, made his fingers twitch where they rested over Dionysus’s breast. He searched once more for instinct, and found it drawing his memory back to the sensation of clever, slick fingers inside of him. And instantly, desire rocketed down his spine, melting into _need._

There was only one problem: he’d no idea how to ask. 

Swallowing back his nerves, Zagreus reached for the hand on his shoulder and pulled, dragging it first down his chest and then to his side. He kept his eyes locked on Dionysus’s, and saw them widen when Dionysus realized his entreaty.

Without even shifting from where he lay, Dionysus ducked his hand beneath the sash to souse his fingers, brought them under Zagreus’s pteruges, and effortlessly sunk them inside of him. 

And Zagreus moaned. _Loudly._

He clapped a hand over his mouth, mortified— bizarrely, his first thought was of Skelly, stationed in the balcony just outside the open door, bound to have heard his indignity. 

Dionysus didn’t retract his fingers, but he stilled them, clearly aware something was wrong. Zagreus cast his eyes anxiously about the room, a new worry in his chest that someone might pop inside and interrupt them: Achilles, Orpheus, or— blood and darkness, maybe even Dusa— 

Something wrenched his attention away from the fear, something wet and warm, and when he looked down he saw it was Dionysus’s mouth on his skin, his lips strong and clever over Zagreus’s breast. In an instant they were upon his teat, and the sensation pulled another moan from Zagreus’s throat, unbidden and unstoppable. His face was scarlet, he was sure, scarlet as the leaves that framed Dionysus’s temples. 

“Exquisite,” Dionysus murmured, lips brushing his skin.

The compliment sent his heart fluttering, pulled a shaky, haphazard breath from his lungs, and at the returned press of lips to his skin, something in the back of his mind clicked. 

Why should he be ashamed of this? Why shouldn’t he have this? Was it really anyone else’s problem? They weren’t off causing mortal wars like Ares and Athena did whenever they squabbled. They weren’t flooding cities or wreaking havoc with squalls thanks to their tempers. This was nothing shame should claim as rightful property, they were harming no-one. 

Zagreus _deserved_ this.

Sudden vigor in his veins, he pushed his hips against Dionysus’s hand, letting his voice ring fully this time, echoing off his chamber walls. And at once he knew it wouldn’t be enough, not this time. 

Without thinking, his gaze fell to Dionysus’s robe, to where it bunched between his legs, shifting in time as Dionysus pumped his hand. Dionysus made a small, surprised sound when he followed Zagreus’s eyes, and looked to him with eyebrows raised, asking without words. 

Zagreus nodded. 

Dionysus moved, then. He slipped his fingers out of Zagreus with a quick, easy motion, then pushed the silk on his waist out of the way— though he kept it tied. 

Zagreus, meanwhile, made awkward work of his pteruges, unfastening them and tossing them to the floor beside his tunic. It wasn’t often he found himself bare before anyone, and the sensation sent a feeling to his gut that was very nearly shame, yet distinctly different. He lay on his back, head over plush, silk-lined pillows, and his knees tucked together by instinct. 

Dionysus hovered above him, considering for a moment— and then curled a hand beneath Zagreus’s waist. He was a god and had the strength of one, and he lifted Zagreus as easily as if he were a handful of grapes. The other gods were keen to remind him of their might and therefore their generosity, but Dionysus’s countenance made it hard to remember that he, too, could crush Zagreus’s bones to dust with his fingertips if he so desired. 

But instead, his palm flattened warm and heavy on Zagreus’s chest, caressing his skin until it rested over his stomach, and Zagreus could not remember ever feeling so safe in another’s arms.

Something slick and solid pressed, careful yet deliberately, against his entrance. And again he thought of a ripe plum, dripping with juice, warm and sticky-sweet. 

Zagreus closed his eyes, willing his body to relax. He’d slain countless burn-flingers and brightswords, but the prospect of allowing someone to enter him so completely now filled him with nerves. Still, they were nothing compared to the heavy, steady _want_ that strung him through to his fingertips. 

“Breathe,” Dionysus murmured, just as he had that night.

And as Zagreus exhaled, Dionysus’s thumb pressed firm on his hips and he began to pull Zagreus down onto himself. 

There had to be something to the fact that Dionysus was a god, something that translated to the way his length breached so broadly without bringing Zagreus pain. For Zagreus knew it should, purely from its size— formidable, to understate it— but he felt nothing but sweet, aching pleasure as Dionysus pushed inside of him, until at last their hips met.

Again, Dionysus waited for him, still but present. He stroked his thumb over Zagreus’s hips.

Zagreus’s legs, bent at the knee, trembled against Dionysus’s sides. His head was too weak to hold aloft and he let it fall back against the pillows, heavy and exhausted. He breathed and breathed, sucked air in great gasps only to let it rush out an instant later.

It was better than fingers, astronomically so. It was so much more, so warm and wet and soft and everything that Dionysus _was,_ and it was inside of him. Zagreus tensed his hips, trying to feel the whole of it, how it pushed against him in every direction. He arched his back— and it popped again, sending a sigh of contentment from his throat. 

And when he opened his eyes, Dionysus was staring at him, his eyes dark and severe, his lips parted, and his breath heavy with what was unmistakably restraint.

He was still effortlessly holding Zagreus aloft, arm muscles barely flexing to carry his weight. And when Zagreus gave a small, silent nod, he moved, pulling him off as gingerly as if he feared Zagreus might shatter.

It was a ridiculous worry— they were both gods, after all— but the existence of his concern meant something, something Zagreus couldn’t quite put to words. It nestled itself beneath his chest, content to rest there until such time he could bring it attention.

And then, as though performing a precious ritual he didn’t dare rush in fear of failing, Dionysus pulled him back down. It was achingly slow, yet if he had moved any faster Zagreus surely wouldn’t be able to draw breath. As Dionysus worked, he let his gaze wander down Zagreus’s chest, lingering for a moment over Zagreus’s stomach— which appeared almost to swell from the new addition. 

Zagreus felt his own length smearing a spot of slick above Dionysus’s navel. And he remembered, then, the purpose of this visit. He couldn’t allow himself to spend, not if his debt was to be paid. 

They repeated like that again, until Zagreus lost count of the slow, gentle thrusts, until impatience bubbled in his gut and burst out as a low, frustrated moan, his heels digging against the blankets as if to push Dionysus along. But Dionysus kept his pace steady, his eyes twinkling with mirth. 

“Something the matter?” 

Zagreus wanted to curse. He pushed his head against the pillows instead, biting his lip. 

“Come on,” Dionysus chided him. “Tell me.” 

Again, Zagreus kicked the sheets. 

Dionysus laughed. And then his hips fell still and he bent over, bracing himself upon the sheets, his wine-dark hair falling over Zagreus’s breast. It smelled of drink, sweet and musky.

“Tell me what you want, Zag,” he said, looking between his eyes. “And I’ll give it to you.”

Words leapt to Zagreus’s tongue before he could stop them. _“More,”_ he heard himself beg. “Please, I want—” He snapped his teeth together, a hiss pulling breath to his lungs. 

Dionysus hummed, satisfied, and pulled him off in a single, direct motion. Before Zagreus could think, Dionysus had a hand on his shoulder and turned him so his chest rested on the sheets. And before Zagreus could speak, Dionysus was pushing back inside of him without even a word of warning, reaching far deeper this time, hitting countless new spots from this angle, and Zagreus dove his face into the pillows to muffle the scream that clawed its way out of his throat.

His nose flattened against the silk as Dionysus plunged into him once more, then again, his pace quickening until Zagreus had barely room for breath. It felt as if his length were hitting a stone wall, and every time it made contact it sent a shockwave through to Zagreus’s fire-bitten toes, sent electricity down his every nerve. 

He couldn’t breathe. Not just from the sensations, but from lack of air. He tried to speak but the words were incomprehensible through layers of down and silk, and panic bubbled to the surface as once again the threat of death reared its head— 

Dionysus’s fingers found his hair and _pulled._

Air filled Zagreus’s lungs in a gasp, rushing out in a hoarse, ragged breath an instant later. Rather than pain, his scalp tingled with a pleasant ache, even as Dionysus shifted his fingers to get a better grip. 

An arm, strong and sweet, wrapped once again around his chest. This time it fully hauled him back, and he hit Dionysus’s chest with a solid _smack._

Crude as the word was, there was no other that described it: Dionysus fucked up and into him, faster now. Something new laced his movements, something that hadn’t been present that night at the feast. It was selfishness, it was _want._ And the fact that what he wanted was _Zagreus_ sent heat to Zagreus’s cheeks that had nothing to do with the Olympian’s length inside of him.

_“Ah—!”_

Dionysus’s hand had found its way between Zagreus’s legs. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth to say _no,_ because he knew more than anything that if Dionysus touched him like that he would spend, and that was exactly what he was trying to avoid— but the instant those fingers wrapped around his length he couldn’t dream of doing anything to make that sensation stop, and the _“Nnn—”_ was all of the word he could muster. 

The arm around his chest tightened, pushing past the gentleness with which Dionysus always laced his touch. Whatever control Dionysus had maintained was beginning to slip away. His lips found Zagreus’s shoulder, his breath guttural, and he moaned, deep and low, in Zagreus’s ear before fastening his teeth atop Zagreus’s skin. 

It hurt, somehow more than the act of taking a god’s length inside himself. Zagreus sucked in another breath sharp through his teeth, feeling tears spring from the corners of his eyes. Dionysus licked the wound, but his lips, too, had lost their gentleness. Zagreus could feel his skin bruise under Dionysus’s tongue, even as he kissed away the blood. 

_“Zag,”_ he breathed, and that was all the warning Zagreus had before Dionysus’s hips collided against his own with tremendous force. He stayed there, keening unthinkingly into Zagreus’s neck as he spent, his seed unloading swift and sweet in an endless flood. 

Zagreus could feel the length pulsing inside of him, and every time he found himself sure it was over, another surge surfaced, great bursts of seed filling him somehow even further. Without looking, he felt it leak from the edges, run down his thighs.

After an eternity, the heat subsided. Dionysus held him, still, this time waiting not for Zagreus’s but for his own breath to temper. When at last his sighs came slack, he loosed his arm and Zagreus fell to the sheets, hitting the pillows with a satisfying _thump._ There was so much wetness between his legs, and he had no doubt his sheets were soiled beyond repair— well, beyond any repair he would publicly request. He couldn’t find it within himself to care.

Hands fell on his hips. And then at once they turned him over— it didn’t require much force; Zagreus was once again victim to the particular brand of exhaustion that followed after pleasure. 

Groggily, he blinked and focused his gaze— and saw a head of hair, grapes, and golden leaves atop his chest. Dionysus was bent low between his legs, a few strands of hair stuck to Zagreus’s thighs, and his lips parted— 

The instant Dionysus’s tongue curled itself wickedly, the second Dionysus’s lips slid down to envelop him, Zagreus was gone. He howled without thinking, reached out to tug Dionysus’s hair, and came like a bullet from the barrel of _Exagryph,_ shooting down Dionysus’s throat. Dionysus just hummed with satisfaction, swallowing every spurt of seed as though it were drink. 

He finally pulled away when at last Zagreus was spent, his hair still caught between Zagreus’s fingers— it was thick and curled in gentle waves that hung beside his neck. His skin shone with sweat, wine-sweet and intoxicating. His eyes met Zagreus’s, but this time there was no smug mirth behind them, no knowing smile, nothing but a pure, vulnerable stare.

His lips glistened.

They drew Zagreus’s gaze. He sat up, not entirely sure what he intended to do.

And Dionysus pressed his lips— to Zagreus’s neck. His tongue pushed firm against Zagreus’s skin, swirled in a long, fat circle, before he pulled away and flopped onto the bed.

And Zagreus was left to wonder why he felt disappointment curling its way inside of him, coming to rest alongside the other, unnamed feeling that had taken refuge below his chest.

They breathed together, first in arrhythmic stutters, then in identical tempo, and at last in two distinct patterns that crossed one another every so often. When their exhales aligned, Zagreus could almost feel himself sinking down into his bed, as though their breath was force enough to push them downwards. 

He wondered whether Dionysus had produced another round of fog. The air was hot and heavy. The smell of sweat and wine and seed lingered all around them. Sounds, little though they were, came muffled. Zagreus cast an eye about the room, but there was nothing in the air that he could see. If anyone came through the door they’d see exactly what he did, the both of them bare to the world. 

And rightly so, he thought to himself. This was his bedroom, and he was allowed to use it as he saw fit.

“So,” he said at last, cutting the silence delicately. “I suppose I should give you what you came for.” 

“Mm?” 

“Your chalice,” Zagreus reminded him.

“Mm,” Dionysus agreed, sitting up and stretching his arms over his head. He grabbed his pelt and fastened it atop his shoulders, tugged the sash back up over his arm, and hefted himself off of Zagreus’s bed, looking for all the world as though he’d just walked through the doors.

Zagreus had a slightly more awkward go of it. He cleaned himself as best he could with a handful of his sheets, and slipped on a spare chiton from his drawers. By the time he finished, Dionysus had begun to walk about the room, stopping to peer at this or that. Thankfully, he passed by the old urn without a second glance.

Zagreus led him out to the balcony, and— just as he’d feared— Skelly was waiting for him. 

True, Zagreus no longer felt shame for his choice of bedding partner— or his choice to bed in the first place— but it was still rather difficult to look Skelly in the eyes. 

“Long time no see, pal!” his companion greeted. “You never wait this long to head out. What kept you?”

“See for yourself,” Zagreus muttered. 

Dionysus appeared behind him, and Skelly snapped his jaw shut.

Zagreus fetched the chalice from his box of keepsakes— taking care not to accidentally pick the other cup Dionysus had gifted him so long ago— and handed it over. Dionysus brought it to his lips and took a long, deep drink, smacking his lips when he’d finished. 

“Yes, that’s the one,” he said, satisfied. “Thanks for keeping it safe, Zag.”

Zagreus raised an eyebrow. “It wasn’t hard.”

Dionysus cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, “I should be heading off, now that I’ve got what I came for. Is this the way you normally go?” He jerked a thumb towards the wall, upon which rested an enormous window. Zagreus’s father’s pact lay beside it, glinting warningly in the torchlight. 

“Yes,” Zagreus said. “But they’ll want to see you out officially—” 

Dionysus leapt upon the sill before he could finish.

“Sorry for the quick getaway,” he said sheepishly, “but I get the feeling your father wants to spend as little time around me as possible. You understand, yeah?” 

Zagreus swallowed. “Yeah.” 

Dionysus grinned. And then he leapt from the windowsill and landed what looked like miles below on the stone floors of Tartarus. 

Charon was already waiting by the banks. Dionysus passed him a coin, boarded his boat, and gave one last wave to the window. Zagreus waved back and watched as Charon departed, watched him steer through the river of blood, until at last they turned a corner and were gone from sight.

There was no point in waiting around. He returned to his chambers, walking without putting much thought into the movement. 

He stopped in front of his mirror to check he was presentable, and after finding his appearance satisfactory, took a deep breath and made his way back to the rest of the House. 

Hypnos was fast asleep on his recliner. Orpheus was nowhere to be found, and Dusa was in the very back of the west wing, adjusting the portrait of Cerberus so that it hung just so. Judging by the carefree song she was humming, she’d stayed too far away from Zagreus’s room to hear a thing.

Zagreus headed over and tapped her once. 

Dusa shrieked, dropping her feather duster. “Oh!” she said when she saw him. “Prince, I—” She stopped. “Where is Lord Dionysus?” 

“He left.”

“But— but—” Dusa whipped around, as though expecting to see Dionysus pop out from behind a column, or perhaps out of an urn. “But I didn’t see him go through the door, or come into the hallway, how could he have—” 

“He left through my— through the window.”

Achilles snorted. He was standing steadfast at his post, Zagreus must have walked right past him without noticing. 

“Through a— but—” Dusa stuttered. “I have to tell Lord Hades!” And she flew off without another word. 

Not three minutes later, Zagreus’s father appeared through the door, as grumpy as ever. He bypassed Cerberus’s empty bed and settled behind his desk, searching for a quill beneath the piles of paperwork.

“I trust you kept him entertained,” he growled to Zagreus, not looking up. 

“Er— yes,” Zagreus said, ignoring how Achilles coughed suspiciously from the west hall.

“Good,” his father grunted. And then he caught sight of Zagreus. “Boy! What's the meaning of this?"

"Pardon?" Zagreus had no doubt his father's anger had a cause— it always did; even if it was dramatic it was typically justified— but he couldn't think of a reason that warranted this level of fury. 

"Where are your laurels?” his father thundered. “Always so unkempt— no concept of proper attire. You are the _prince_ of this house and you need to dress like it—” 

His words washed away as Zagreus brought a hand to his head and found nothing but hair. 

Something settled into the pit of his stomach.

“What’s all this about?” Persephone called, emerging from the garden with several dozen shades in tow. They gathered into the main hall and Hypnos, after waking with a start, began shuffling them into two neat lines. “What’s wrong with Zagreus’s dress? He looked perfectly fine to—” She caught sight of him and blinked. “Oh.” If she suspected anything, she didn’t show it. “I’m sure you’ll find them somewhere. They can't have run off."

Zagreus hid his involuntary and rather hysterical laugh into a quick cough. "Yes, you're right," he said faintly. It was hard to conjure words when his mind’s eye was preoccupied with the image of Dionysus returning to Olympus with red and golden leaves atop his head. 

He had to have known— Zagreus wore those things day and night and knew the weight they added, knew how the back leaves tended to dig into his scalp if he didn’t tilt the circlet just a bit to the left. 

No, Dionysus couldn’t have left without knowing what he was taking. It had to have been intentional. Perhaps it was his way of reminding Zagreus that his debt was still unpaid. Or perhaps it was his way of promising they would meet again, that while the date of some such future meeting held no importance, it _would_ happen in time. 

“Yes,” Zagreus said again, strength finding him at last. “I believe I shall see them again, soon enough.”


End file.
